


Huff and Puff

by TempletonDashBee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Gift Fic, Kid Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:57:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempletonDashBee/pseuds/TempletonDashBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is nearly Christmas and Sherlock Holmes is at war. Mummy told Mycroft he was being silly. Sherlock wasn’t even a year old yet. He lacked the mental capacity to conceptualize what a war even was, let alone implement any sort of strategy, and he most certainly wouldn’t be able to launch an attack. Yet as Mycroft observed Sherlock pulling himself across the floor toward the Christmas tree, he couldn’t think of a better word for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Huff and Puff

It had started, rather innocuously, with a Christmas tree. At first Sherlock had regarded it from Mycroft’s lap with the same curiosity as most things that came into the house; infatuation that soon burnt out and turned to blithe indifference. In all likelihood the tree would have gone the same way, if not for the fairy lights.

Sherlock had been indifferent to the tree when it came into the house. He’d crawled past it, pausing long enough to grab at a branch and attempt to chew on it before making a face and carrying on. He had even fallen asleep under it one afternoon with the tree skirt tangled in one pudgy hand.

The peace lasted for 5 days, long enough for Mummy to snap a photo of Sherlock playing in the tree water, before the war started. Father had put the fairy lights on the evening prior, after Sherlock had gone to sleep. Now he cried when Mummy left him under the tree (she thought the bright lights would entertain him as they had Mycroft on his first Christmas). He clung to Nanny rather than allow himself to be placed under the boughs. When Father tried the same tactic he’d stayed still long enough to be set on the floor before proceeding to crawl behind the sofa.

8 days since the menace had entered the house, and 3 days since the twinkling lights had appeared, found Mycroft and Mummy decorating the tree. They had tried to involve Sherlock, he was coordinated enough to grasp some of the soft ornaments and certainly could place them on the tree with assistance, but he’d refused. Loudly. Shriek was the word Mycroft had tried to supply but Mummy couldn’t hear him over Sherlock’s wails.

Eventually Mummy was able to leave Sherlock lying on his stomach on the sofa babbling as he glared at the tree through darkening curls. That he was being noisy wasn’t unusual and his lack of enthusiasm toward the tree could easily be seen as his typically contrary disposition, it was the glaring that caught Mycroft’s attention. He had never seen something hold Sherlock’s attention long enough to actually make him angry. He might become frustrated, or disinterested, but Sherlock had yet to turn anything like anger on an object. That he had chosen something so strange as a Douglas fir to be the first of many victims of his scorn came as something of a surprise.

The only change that had occurred since the tree came in was the lights. A fact that Mycroft explained to Mummy only to be rebuked. The use of the phrase “at war” may have been dramatic, but Father had started reading the King Arthur stories that week and it had seemed the most applicable word in Mycroft’s vocabulary to describe Sherlock’s actions.

The fairy lights may have caught Sherlock in a sneak attack but one look at the tearstains on his brothers’ cheeks and the deep seated resentment in his eyes told Mycroft that though Sherlock had lost the battle he was determined to win the war.

 

 

Sherlock planned his retaliation for days. He allowed himself to be placed in enemy territory. He lay under the tree for hours, babbling and grabbing at the bulbs until Mummy plucked him up, worried he might burn himself. Secure in Mycroft’s lap Sherlock watched the lights, his eyes roving from the bottom of the tree to the top and back again as his hands made fists in the fabric of his brother’s dressing gown.

Days later when he was left on the floor, Sherlock feigned interest in his blocks long enough for Mummy to pick up her book before scooting under the tree.

Not 45 minutes later Sherlock emerged from the tree, red faced, his hair full of stray needles and sap and his hands chapped. Mycroft suggested that he had attempted to fell the tree. Mummy frowned at the very idea as she picked the needles from Sherlock’s hair, completely missing the expression of fury on her younger sons face.

When Sherlock next crawled into battle his strategy resulted in several broken ornaments and a slash to Sherlock’s knee, but the lights twinkled on.

 

 

Now it was nearly Christmas and Mycroft had been given strict instructions to watch the baby. Not an easy task on the best of days; Sherlock was forever getting into, behind, and on top of things. Add to that the lure of all the pre- Christmas activity going on in the house and it was no great shock that Mycroft wasn’t paying quite as much attention as he had solemnly promised Mummy he would. One moment Sherlock had been next to him on the rug in front of the hearth, engaged in his now daily starring match with his nemesis, and the next he’d vanished.  

There was really only once place he could be. Resigned, Mycroft crawled toward the tree.

Sherlock was sitting up on the left side perimeter, nose nearly touching a cluster of lights. The glare was in place, not at all hindered by the baby fat in his cheeks or the hair in his eyes. For a moment Mycroft thought about taking Sherlock back to the fire, he would go back to his book and let Sherlock turn the pages, he enjoyed that immensely; But even as he was considering it Sherlock launched his attack.

His attack, as it happened, was to pull in a great breath of air before pursing his lips and blowing at the light. Nothing happened, the light kept twinkling, both Holmes brothers starred.

Sherlock took another breath, deeper this time, and blew again. He let the air out until his face was red and still the fairy lights burned. Sherlock kept on doggedly shifting himself to try the same strategy on different lights, looking for the weak link in his enemy. Mycroft watched him until Sherlock had to move to the back of the tree in order to continue his fight, leaving the elder Holmes behind. He could leave Sherlock until he gave up or passed out, either way it would likely be over before Mummy came to check on them. Or he could help his baby brother win the day. Shuffling away from the tree Mycroft worked his way over the wall where the plug for the lights was lodged in its customary socket.

It would be the work of a moment to pull the plug out and end it but that wouldn’t do. Sherlock’s newest strategy was rather inventive, if misguided but such ingenuity should be rewarded. Gripping the plug carefully Mycroft waited to hear Sherlock’s inhale, then waited to hear the beginnings of his exhale before he wrenched the cord from the wall.

The tree went dark moments before Sherlock’s delighted squeal cut through the room.

On December 23rd (with just a little bit of help from big brother) Sherlock Holmes won the war. 

**Author's Note:**

> Gift fic for mycroftniss on Tumblr as part of the SherlockSecretSanta gift exchange!
> 
> This is the first fan fiction I have written for any fandom ever. I signed up for the exchange on Tumblr on a whim and happened to get my AO3 invite on the same day; so I took it as fate and wrote some Christmas Kidlock.


End file.
